*

He whirled on the bewildered peasant.

"How far is it to Paris?"

"About eleven miles."

"Then I'll go there. I'll get a doctor." Even as he spoke, Mark was
pulling on his jacket. He strode toward the door, then hesitated and
came back. He gripped the old peasant's shoulders. "Stay with her, old
man, 'till I come back."

"I shall stay."

Mark drew the knife from his belt. Handed it to the other. When he
spoke, his voice was but a cracked whisper:

"If _they_ come ... use this. She would rather have it so."

And the answer came back:

"I promise it, friend! They shall not take her alive!"

A wild trip it was, that journey to Paris. A dozen times before he was
beyond Baron Morriere's domains, Mark was certain he would be trapped.

Then he was in the city and searching out the doctor's office in a vast,
ancient rookery on the Left Bank. Outside--although it was only
mid-afternoon--hovering storm clouds transformed day into night, while,
at last, he pounded on the door to which he had been directed.

The door opened. A scowling, youthful man with tousled hair glared out
at him, reeling tipsily all the while.

"Wha' y' want?"

"I'm looking for Doctor d'Allempier."

"Then why y' come here? _I_ ain' no doc-tor. Me, I'm painter. Gustav
Jerbette. 'M bes' dam' pain'er--"

Disgust welled within Mark's heart like the thunder that rumbled
overhead. He jerked free of the drunk's pawings.

And then, suddenly, he stopped. Stopped coldly and completely, as if he
had been turned to stone. Deep within him an idea was growing. An idea
so stupendous that it made his brain reel within his skull.

He whirled on the drunk.

"What did you say your name was?"

"'M Gustav Jerbette. 'M pain'er. Bes' dam' pain'er--"

The next instant the tipsy one was reeling backward into his room under
the impetus of a powerful shove.

"Hey! Wha's idea?" he burbled. "Qui' pushin'--"

"Shut up, you stew-bum! I'm going to sober you up if I have to kill you!
You've got a job to do!"

* * * * *

The doctor was a grave, bearded man. At last he rose from beside
Elaine's straw bed in the fire-gutted chateau.

"How is she, doctor? Is there any hope?" Mark's voice was choked with
emotion, his face drawn and haggard with strain.

Slowly, the medical man shook his head.

"I am sorry, _m'sieur_," he said quietly. "I can offer you little
solace. Her lungs already are filling. I doubt that she can last unt